A Slight Case of Mayhem
by Topgallant
Summary: Over two hundred years since Liz’s death, and because of an injustice done to Will Turner, Captain of the Flying Dutchman, he's cursed to sail forever. But what would happen if he comes ashore again? Will he succumb to a slight case of mayhem? Post AWE.
1. The Flying Dutchman

A/N Hm. Okay, well, this is my first PotC fanfic. -Crosses fingers- Hope you like it. Some sexual references and implications, but that's all. It's also /not/ a romance.

Summary: It's been over two hundred years since Elizabeth's death, and because of an injustice done to the captain of the Flying Dutchman, he's cursed to sail forever. But what would happen if he comes ashore again?

**Prologue**

"_Fifteen men on a dead man's chest,  
yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.  
Drink and the devil had done for the rest,  
yo ho ho and a bottle of rum.  
The mate was fixed by the bo'sun's pike,  
the bo'sun brained with a marlinspike.  
Cookey's throat was marked belike,  
it had been gripped by fingers ten;  
and there they lay, all good dead men.  
Like break o'day in a boozing ken,  
yo ho ho and a bottle of rum."_

The lyrics of that gruesome song were belted out by Penrod, as he sidled towards the port side of the Flying Dutchman, peering over the railing with a decidedly addled expression on his countenance, something that was ever present. Humming to himself now with only a few, muttered, indiscernible words, he stared out at the bleak seas of World's End, watching the boats of souls pass by. The movement was slow, languid, and the persons sitting complacently within paid no notice to the Dutchman…or Penrod.

Over the years, it was noticeable how drastic the clothing changed on these souls. Ever since Elizabeth Turner died, the Captain was loathe to step on land at all. Occasionally, he would drop anchor outside of port to visit his own family, and they would go ashore, only to receive strange looks and barely concealed whispers. By this point, it was impossible to tell what year it was…only that it was clearly a dangerous point in the future. The souls of some women and girls wore the most scandalous clothing, worse than any of the wenches Hadras had ever seen.

They often were garbed in tight breeches that showed above their knees…all the way up to their thighs! A delightfully tantalizing amount of bosom was shown, what with their low cropped blouses and all. The men were equally changed, showing less and less lace, -though in a few cases, dressed similar to the women-. The fashions and appearances changed so much over the years. It must be an age of debauchery and sin, worse than anything they had ever experienced! If only the captain would let them go ashore again…

But no. That would not happen. Not for many years, at least. Yet the month of William Turner's one chance to walk on land soon approached.

**Chapter I, part I**

**The Flying Dutchman**

"Captain," said Bootstrap, putting a large, paw-like hand on his son's shoulder affectionately, "We've not been ashore for years now. More than thirty, at least. The men have been loyal to you; you know they have. Reward them for their steadfast constancy." His luminous, pale blue eyes were asking for this favor, though quite prepared to accept whatever decision his son chose.

Bootstrap was standing on the quarterdeck, the full length of the Dutchman spread before him. Will was positioned on the stairs, frozen on the second step going down. He was in the process of descending when his father caught up with him to bring forward an important -and often avoided- issue.

"You're our captain. We're obligated to accept whatever course of action you will, but you know that they deserve this treat." He said, his husky voice stretched from all the years at sea. His son nodded absently, thoughtful.

"I know." Will said at last. "I'll let them go." He said this softly, like it was a great pain to lose the men for but a day. Motioning for his father to move from blocking the stairs, he slipped past him, and, walking towards the wheel, stated to Jimmylegs, the bo'sun, "We're close to the Americas, near the Baja coast. Steer us where you will." Then he clapped the man on the back with good cheer that he didn't really feel.

The bo'sun displayed a lopsided grin, splitting his face almost in two with his glee. With a smile, Bootstrap passed Will with a short dip of his head, thanking him. His son returned the smile, but it soon faded, and with a deep breath, he retreated down the stairs again, avoiding the crew like they were a deadly plague, seizing his limbs with clawed fingers and spreading an icy chill spreading over his heart. But they were no disease, just men.

Men who wanted to see life again, see the new world for what it was, not just attempting to piece together a story with only the souls floating past them as evidence. In recent years, when cruising the coastal waters, they would come across sleek ships, white and pristine with no sails to speak of. They were like dolphins, almost, with their speed and agility, cutting through the waves as easily as a knife through warmed butter.

It was a wonder how they moved so precisely without any wind to power them. Why, it was a wonder they moved at all! How could Will blame the Dutchman's hands for wanting to find the source of this enigmatic vessel with no oars, no sails and no rigging? He could not. And so he chose to let them find out, to satiate themselves with knowledge and wenches.

Now in the safety of his cabin, Will passed the ominous organ, looming over him like a thing alive. It served as a reminder of how twisted he could become, how hard he must work not to turn into the next Davy Jones. This giant, grim organ was a warning, but it also served another purpose. He ran his deft fingers over the keys, long unused and out of tune. When he hit one note, a particularly sour sound was emitted from the bellowing behemoth.

Looking up at the pipes, Will smiled reminiscently, his warm, rum-colored eyes gazing at a face that materialized before him.

It was Elizabeth, giving him the suggestion to hide the key to the Dead Man's Chest in one of those enormous tubes. It was genius, a place seemingly no one would think to look, for fear of incurring the captain's wrath. Whether it was the new captain or the vengeful spirit of Davy Jones was unclear.

Then the mirage vanished, leaving Will alone, feeling alienated and melancholy. It was said Jones lost the ability to love when his heart was cut out.

Why had that not happened to him?

**Chapter I, part II**

What was the definition of monster? Was it an abnormality, a lusus naturae, like the twisted creature that Davy Jones had become? Was it a sinister fiend, an internal gargoyle that worked for their own ends, like Hector Barbossa? There were too many monsters in the world for merely one vague interpretation of the word. Take William Turner for example. All his life he attempted to do good, to live with a personal code of ethics and morality, only to have it ripped savagely away by one pirate, namely Jack Sparrow.

This chance meeting in a humble forge catapulted the young blacksmith into a world of scoundrels, thievery and danger. It was nothing like the romanticism of piracy that oft would appeal to younger, naïve children as it once did to Elizabeth. No, William Turner became one of them. One of the pirates. The outlaws. The monsters. While he was no corrupted skeleton, no fish-like creature, his view of life was warped. How could it not be, filled with Goddesess, Krakens and curses as it was? And now he was one of them, doomed for eternity as a psychopomp.

He was no longer living, though his heart still beat. How was it that Elizabeth loved a creature like that, though she blindly insisted she did? It repulsed him to know that he was no longer entirely human, to know that he outlived Elizabeth, to know that he was forever changed because of a fateful chain of events of which he had no control over.

Will mastered the eerie ability to slip through walls and doors, crossing long distances between ships at sea like a shadowy wraith, a specter. That's what he felt like. Hollow. Incorporeal. Ghostly. Was this how he was doomed to feel like forever, as an immortal? Gladly Will would have given Jack the heart, even if it meant his own death. If he had only known what measures Elizabeth and Captain Sparrow would have done to save his life…was it worth it? Jack would certainly have saved his father, and their skirmish with Norrington on Isla Cruces seemed altogether futile.

So here he was, Captain William Turner of the dreaded Flying Dutchman, staring gloomily at his tanned hands, sitting at the edge of an ancient, creaking couch in his cabin. Around his neck was looped a chain of silver; the musical pendant that once belonged to Jones. It sparkled incandescently in the moonlight that leaked through the window, the engraved eyes glinting supernaturally. If only Elizabeth was buried with the second piece. Then he wouldn't feel quite so alone.

Elizabeth was constantly on his mind, every day. Even as the spectral essences of souls floated past, reduced to glowing wisps, Will thought of her. She was like one of those ghosts, haunting him and toying with his mind. Her voice whispered to him, shouted to him, and he could think of nothing but her. The days inched past slowly, and Will wondered why he had not yet carved his own heart out. Ah. He had no heart. It was always in her keeping. Always. And he said as much to her so long ago.

He once trusted Elizabeth with his life, yet he doubted her fidelity. Who would be so loyal to a man gone every ten years? It was impossible, even for her. Or so he thought. Ten years after the battle with Beckett and Jones, the Dutchman was preparing to return once again to land. However, within that span of years, Will had constant turmoil with himself, suspecting that Elizabeth had abandoned him in favor of a more readily available man.

Despite these doubts, he would not let himself ruin his one chance of being with Elizabeth for the rest of his life. As the green flash surrounded him, and the ship dove beneath the waves, surfacing again in a different location, he felt in his heart, -ironically- that she remained ever faithful. He continued to sail unfalteringly towards the rendezvous point, anticipation tingling in his entire body.

When he saw two shapes walking towards the beach, a brief, blinding moment of panic surged through Will. Who were they? Surely not Elizabeth. Had she forgotten? Did she not stay staunch in her love? Yet the strong feeling of assurance still remained deeply rooted in him, even though his thoughts strayed to darker ideas.

He bounded to the nearest jollyboat, hoisting it over the side of the ship, jumping within and cutting the ropes in a frantic flurry of rapid movements. His crew watched him with a mixture of joy and regret, secure in the fact that their noble captain would soon be leaving them forever, though heading towards the woman he still loved.

The figures on the beach still approached, one half the size of the other, and a few of the men jabbed Bootstrap Bill with their elbows, winking and muttering encouragements, with whispers of "Grandpapa Bootstrap," and other endearing terms.

All of this was lost to Will, who rowed steadily towards the shore, his eyes glued on the Dutchman like it was the last thing in the world he would ever see.

When finally the increasing amount of sand under the hull of the jollyboat brought him to a halt, he leapt out…and froze. His mouth turned suddenly dry, and his tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, unable to perform any utterance at all.

"Papa?"

Elizabeth was there, beautiful and shining with all the radiance of an angel, and by her side, a young boy hid behind her nervously. He looked up at Will with his very own brown eyes, wide and curious, open to the world. The child looked every inch his father and mother…

This was his son. Elizabeth was smiling.

The family instantly clicked, William Turner III began following his father around like an adoring puppy. The first day passed with much rejoicing, and Bootstrap too came ashore to celebrate his son's freedom, and to greet the latest descendant in the Turner line.

As night settled in, and Will was in the process of saying his farewells to his crew, a sudden wind picked up, blowing about the assembled company in a fury.

He would soon learn that the sea didn't give up what it cherished so easily.

The voice of Calypso was trumpeted, airy, but distinct in the unexpected gale. It spoke to the former Captain of the Flying Dutchman, commanding him to continue his services as he himself had not stayed loyal to Elizabeth. Outrage struck all in attendance, and the Turners were devastated, unbelieving.

Calypso's voice continued to talk through the screaming wind. She haughtily pointed out that Will now had two loves; Elizabeth and the sea. He protested that any sailor fell in love with that particular mistress, that both he and his wife had stayed true, but Calypso was jealous; envy was in her voice, and she would have none of it.

Will's heart was still in the Dead Man's Chest, and he would be Captain of the Flying Dutchman forever.

It was not Elizabeth that doomed him to sail for eternity…but himself.

All these years he held a certain dread of walking on solid earth, as if he was not worthy enough for such a reward. He longed for the smell of trees, the texture of fresh soil in his hands…but no. He was not yet ready. Would he ever be?

"William." Looking up, he saw his father standing in the doorway. "Don't blame yourself again this time. You know it's no fault of yours. She would not want you to handle it this way." Bootstrap said that every year, and as much as Will wished to believe him, it almost seemed like it was too cheap a way to excuse himself.

When Will did not answer, Bootstrap shook his head sadly and left him alone. Barely audibly, Will said to his long dead wife, "I can't go. Not when I'm thinking of you."


	2. Girl's Night Out

**Chapter II, part I**

**Girl's Night Out**

"Big girls don't cry-yi-yi! Big girls don't cry…something-else-yi-yi…"

A flash of red-brown hair, the glimpse of a smile, both twirling past the glass door of a modest one-story home with a semi-green lawn. Golden poppies adorned the sides of the cobblestone path leading to the house, and a birch tree stood sentry to the side.

"Big girls, mmhmm, don't cry!" A muffled but distinctly female voice altered between humming and singing the words of a song largely popular from over thirty years ago emanated from the inside, the sound wafting pleasantly from the open windows.

Within, the woman ceased her singing, and sat down at her coffee table, carefully placing a steaming cup of tea on a coaster, sticking her finger in while preparing to stir, before yelping and popping the digit within her mouth, glaring daggers at the hot liquid for burning her.

Her hair was the color of mahogany, a soft warm color, just like her eyes. She had a pale complexion with a healthy color in her cheeks, and rosebud lips. She was not tall when standing, though so well proportioned it was almost impossible to tell when she sat. At five feet three inches, she was something on the smaller side, but that didn't matter to her.

While slender, her hips were not curvaceous, her chest not busty, her waist not pencil thin, her skin not flawless.  
She was human.  
And no human looked like a pole.  
At least, no human that she wanted to be.

Taking a sip out of her cup that cheerily said in bright bold lettering, 'Wisconsin loves cheese!' the woman leaned back and yawned like a sleepy puppy. She closed her eyes, sighing deeply and complacently. The mug was resting in her cupped hands, the warmth seeping through to her bones.

Soon though, an annoying buzzing echoed through her house. One eye creaked open slowly, and rolled, expressing her agitation at being disturbed. The phone's high pitch screamed again, but the woman was in no mind to pick it up. Finally, it stopped, and with a beep, her message machine whirred into action.

"Hello, you've reached Claire Peterson's home. Sorry, I can't think of anything funny or witty to say, so just shout out whatever you need to after the beep!" her pre-recorded voice warbled happily. The woman sat motionless in her chair, head trained towards the tape recorder intently.

"Hi, it's Veronica. I found out about this really cool pirate festival happening in a couple of days. You know, for September 19th, talk like a pirate day." By this point, Claire had jumped up and began sprinting for the phone hanging from the wall in the kitchen, the next room over.

"Hi Vera," she said, slightly out of breath. Whenever the word 'pirate' was involved, Claire was there. She held a fondness for pirates from a very early age. She didn't know why, but they just intrigued her. Of course, she knew pirates were awful, wretched and desperate men, not at all like Errol Flynn from the old movies.

But…the whole idea of _pirate_, appealed to her. Or, at least the olden kinds. Modern ones just bugged her. Of course, modern pirates bug most everybody, so that was nothing special.

"Hey!" Veronica greeted from the other end. "What took you so long? Just kidding. Anyway, you probably know all about this already, being the maritime expert that you are, but there's a pirate festival down near San Diego. What do you say you and me go down this weekend, rent out a room in a motel, go to the festival, kick back, relax, and maybe, if there's enough time the next day, we can spend it at Seaworld together?"

"Wow," Claire replied, "uhm, that sounds great! I have work the next day, and I might need to leave Seaworld early so I'm not too zonked, but yeah, what fun! And no, I didn't know about this particular festival. For once."

Veronica's laughter resounded from the phone. "Excellent! See you then?"

"You bet." Claire agreed, nodding to herself. "Do you want me to pick you up, vice versa, or we just meet at the motel?" she asked.

"Let's just meet there. Remember the Holiday Inn we stayed at with Danielle?"

"Yes," Claire affirmed.

"Well, how 'bout I make the reservations, and you get there at, say…twelve? That way we have a few hours before the festival starts. We aren't going to split the price either. Call it an early birthday present." Veronica said.

"Oh, you can't! That's too nice! I won't let you." Claire said, laughing.

"Oh please. It's not everyday my best friend turns twenty-five. C'mon, you know you want me to pay for it. Those dumb bosses of yours at the maritime museum don't pay you nearly enough. C'monnnn!" Veronica stubbornly coaxed.

"Alright, alright you win. Thanks so much. Is there anything I can-" Claire was cut off when her friend interrupted.

"Stop being so polite! We've known each other since middle school. Well, you were homeschooled, but you know what I mean!" Veronica chided affably.

"Thank you once again so much." Claire gasped happily.

"Of course, me hearty!" Veronica replied, impersonating a pirate, somewhat lamely. "Arr! Now, back ter swabbin' the deck! Okay, see you Saturday!"

"Bye!"

"Bye!"

With a click, Veronica hung up. Laughing giddily, Claire twirled and collapsed on her couch, grinning madly. She was looking forward to this tremendously.

-x-

**Chapter II, part II**

The drive from Oxnard was long but not laborious, and Claire was pleased that the traffic weren't like the doldrums today. Haha, similar the doldrums the Flying Dutchman got stuck in, or whatever. There were so many different versions of the story, she didn't know which one she liked best.

First, there was the tale of how the Dutchman was captained by, well, a _Dutchman_. He had made a deal with the East India Trading Company, and wanted to meet up with their fleet around the Cape of Good Hope, or the horn of Africa. There, the crazed captain got stuck in a hurricane, but he blindly insisted they continue. Due to his foolishness, he and his crew were cursed forever for some inane reason.

Another story was he had sold his soul to the devil, doomed to sail for eternity with his ghost crew. Claire's mother told her that one as a child; the result was her inability to sleep that night, wildly insisting that the captain of the Dutchman was "Out to get her and eat her soul!"

Claire snorted, with a half-grin. Yeah, right. But hey, she was a kid! Besides, she still needed to keep at least _one_ light on when watching Dracula, or the likes.

Tapping her fingers idly to an unknown tune on the steering wheel, she thought of one other prominent take on the legend.

The captain was Davy Jones himself, bound to ferry souls to the other side, sentenced by the Goddess Calypso. The last that was heard of him, he had failed to do his duty, and had transformed into a hideous creature, and perished in a furious maelstrom.

Claire knew that one at least was complete tosh, as she liked to say. First off, _everyone_ was aware that Calypso was a Greek nymph, not some Goddess. Second, the whole thing sounded too fabricated, even for a myth.

Of course Claire liked to believe in faeries and Harry Potter just like everyone else. But some stories were just too ridiculous.

-x-

Locking her car, -a silver Camry, compliments from her parents- Claire entered the Holiday Inn lobby, smiling politely at the desk manager. When she approached, the manager asked civilly, "How may I help you?"

"Uhm, there should be a room reservation in the name of Veronica Johnson?" Claire asked unsurely, resting her arms on the false granite counter. The manager frowned, staring at her computer screen.

"No, I'm sorry. Is there another name, perhaps?"

Claire bit her lip thoughtfully. That was odd. Did Veronica forget to call? She was usually on top of things if she said she'd do it. This could be a bad start to their short getaway.

"Maybe Claire Peterson?" She offered.

The manager shook her head after a click of the mouse. Claire always wondered how they did that so quickly. What if their hands moved too fast for the human eye to register? Nah.

"Not that either. Are you sure that you have a reservation in _this _hotel?" The manager suggested. Claire said nothing, thinking hard. Maybe she had taken a wrong turn off the freeway? But no. Veronica did say the motel where they'd stayed with Danielle before, and the parking lot looked familiar. But hey, she could always call Veronica or ask for a spare room.

Then an idea hit her. Claire's nutty friend liked to make her guess.

"Maybe b-day girl, or pirate girl, or something. Try that, please."

The manager checked the screen again, the blue light reflecting on her face and hands.

"Well, we actually have b-day girl in our registry." She said, smiling warmly. It reminded Claire of her own mother, oddly enough. "May I see your photo ID?"

"Yeah, of course." She said, pulling her wallet out of her purse, -with a skull and crossbones on it, naturally- and slid it onto the counter.

"Thank you," The manager said after leaning over to see it better. "Okay, Ms. Peterson. You're all set to go. Room three twenty-nine, second floor."

"Could I have a map please?" Claire asked shyly. She always got lost in these places, even if she had been there before. It was hilarious and slightly embarrassing, but true. Once, she had circled a shopping mall two times before spotting the entrance.

"Sure." The manager pulled out a map from below the counter, and ran over the path Claire needed to take with a highlighter. "And here's your key." She added, putting the card out as well.

"Thanks, Claire said, snatching them both. "Have a nice day."

"You too." The manager replied back cheerily.

-x-

Lugging her heavy suitcase along the outside hallways, Claire paused occasionally to consult her much-needed map. She didn't see Veronica's car in the parking lot, so that meant she'd have to do this on her own.

Three twenty-seven, three twenty-eight, three twenty-nine. "There we go…" Claire murmured to herself, plopping her monstrous suitcase on the ground and pulling out the keycard to open the door. She was reaching for the zipper on her purse again when the door suddenly swung open.

Claire looked up, surprised.

"Hey!" Veronica was standing there, dressed in a denim skirt and spaghetti strap top, with dark sunglasses perched at the peak of her head. Blonde curls cascaded down her shoulders, and her blue eyes sparkled merrily. She was far taller than Claire, and her slim body looked almost unnatural. She always marveled at her friend's model-like beauty. It was almost strange Veronica worked as columnist, not right up there on the cat-walk with Eve or Heidi Klum.

"How many guesses did it take?" she asked excitedly, stooping down to help bring Claire's suitcase in.

"About three or four," she answered, following and bolting the door shut behind them. "Thanks for bringing in the suitcase. And paying. And making a reservation. And suggesting this." Claire kept adding, laughing.

"No prob'," Veronica said assuredly, waving away the thank you's with a gesture of her carefully manicured hand. "Gosh, Claire. What do you keep in this thing?" she asked, pointing at the suitcase, which was sitting innocently in their tiny closet.

She shrugged. "I'm an over-packer. You can call it family genetics. I don't go on any trip without at least ten pairs of underwear. You know that." She smiled at her own exaggeration. "Oh, and by the way, where's your car? I didn't see it in the lot."

Veronica moved over to one of the queen beds, sitting down on the edge. "I borrowed Danny's SUV for the weekend." She said, naming her current boyfriend of the past four months, a near record for her.

"Why's that?" Claire asked in mock suspicion, beginning to take her sneakers off.

"For your suitcase." Veronica answered seriously. "Kidding! Well, I figured we might, y'know, get a few extra _souvenirs_." She shrugged, emphasizing the word.

"Like what, two motorcycles?" Claire asked with good-natured sarcasm.

"No way! Like _guys_."

Claire stopped tugging her socks off halfway. "I thought you and Danny were going good. Besides, isn't it kinda awful to be cheating on him using his own truck?"

"Not for me, silly." Veronica said, shaking her head, blonde curls bouncing. "For you. Martin was a jerkoff, and- of course you didn't know he was, initially," she added hastily, seeing Claire's hardened expression, "-so I figured since you haven't dated in a while, and you are _still_ a virgin, I might hook you up with a couple guys I meet. I'll snag 'em, you take 'em."

"Thanks, Vera. But I just want to wait a while. I don't want to rush it, and I _certainly_ don't want you to be finding them for me, no offence. Our choices in men are…varied." She said carefully, stuffing her socks in the sneakers, she began her quest for the TV remote, eager to change the subject.

Veronica was sweet by trying to get her to find a new boyfriend, but Claire's last relationship was…difficult. Martin seemed nice, at first. Of course they all do, sure. So they got together, -not married, no, but just together- and it seemed fine. But then after a few dinners and trips, Martin was expecting something Claire wasn't ready to give.

Turned out the guy was a complete maniac. He wasn't going to take no for an answer. Fortunately, Claire snatched the phone, starting to call the police, and the man fled. Serves him right, the creep. That was ten months ago, and she wasn't ready to start a new relationship. Not yet, at least.

"Come _on_!" Veronica whined, pulling at the back of Claire's locks playfully. "I know you like those…committed guys…" she lowered her voice, rolling her eyes, "So I'll pick carefully. I'll even introduce you, and let you decide. Plus if we snag 'em at the pirate festival, you know you'll have some common interests.

"No thanks," Claire insisted, plucking the remote out of a drawer and, flopping onto her bed, she turned it on. "What channel you want?" she asked. The distraction worked.

"Lemme see the guide first," Veronica said, finally giving up on her incessant nagging.

"Okay." Claire was relieved that her friend didn't press further.

It was too soon. She was too tender, too sore, and she was still having nightmares, thinking of him.


	3. The Pirate Festival, Day One

**Chapter III**

**The Pirate Festival, Day One**

"Hey, Vera." Claire said, gently shoving her friend's shoulder. Veronica, soon growing bored with daytime game shows, had decided to take a short nap until three o'clock, when they both agreed they'd prepare for the festival.

"Wha?" she groaned, disinclined to sit up. Or open her eyes, for that matter.

"Time to get ready!" Claire said perkily, disappearing into the bathroom before shortly coming back, her hands dripping with water. "It's cold!" she said, "Don't make me hurt you…" she warned cheerily.

Veronica waved her arm in the air. "Yeah, I'm coming. Hold on."

She made no motion to move.

"Too bad." Claire said, tsking. Then, jumping on the bed, she thrust her hands on Veronica's swanlike neck. Vera's legs curled in, and her fingers clenched. "Ah! That's freezing!"

"I know." Claire chirped happily, bouncing. The movement shook Veronica, and she rolled -literally- off the bed. There was a moment of stunned silence, then a muffled, "Ow."

"You okay?" Claire sprang into action, vaulting over the bed and landing on the other side, stooping down to be closer to Vera's level.

"Yeah." Veronica picked herself up. Wiping lint of her skirt and turning to face Claire, now fully awake, her eyebrows raised.

"Very nice!" she exclaimed, impressed.

"Thanks." Claire said, looking down at herself humbly. She always glowed when praised about her looks. After all, it _was_ nice to hear.

She was dressed in an aged linen frock coat, a dark, unbuttoned waistcoat, and a prim white shirt tucked neatly into her woolen breeches. A baldric was draped across her right shoulder, ending snugly at her left hip. Her suede boots stopped promptly just beneath her knees, and a faded green headscarf was wrapped around her head.

It was her impeccable taste for near authenticity that had elicited Veronica's praise. Of course, she knew, pirates dressed like regular sailors for practicality, as well as having nothing grand on hand. The frock coat was exaggerating the true nautical simplicity of common sailors…

But it was cool.

"You going to wear anything?" Claire asked, sitting down on their one chair while picking up the complimentary Holiday Inn pen and scribbling doodles on their free notepad.

"Of course!" Veronica squealed, dashing towards the closet. Claire gave a snort and rolled her eyes. She shouldn't have asked.

"I'm wearing a wench costume!"

"I thought you might," Claire said, nodding and furiously crossing out a blob that resembled an old man with a large nose.

"It has a bustier, and a skirt, and everything!"

"Yeah, Vera, most wench costumes have skirts." Claire laughed.

"Well duh! They should! I mean, they're ladies. Not gross, sweaty pirates." Veronica began digging in her own suitcase for her outfit.

"Nope, not gross sweaty pirates. Sleazy, sweaty whores." Claire answered, staring in befuddlement at her intention of drawing a skull and cross bones. It looked more like a squashed pumpkin and crossed cylindrical objects with the top part of hearts as ends.

"Ew." Veronica replied distastefully, holding up the bustier in front of herself at arms' length, yet looking over at Claire and wrinkling her nose. "Well my character will just look like a prostitute. She won't be one."

"Smart choice," Claire answered absently, finally ripping off the page and dumping it into the wastebasket by the desk she was sitting at.

"Right. Well, anyway, I'm going to go try this on. Okay?" Veronica said, clutching the material of her dress to her bosom and admiring the way it billowed when she twirled.

"Alright, sure."

-x-

Come a few minutes later, while Claire was lounging on the bed, reading a piratical novel about Anne Bonny, Veronica came out of the bathroom and curtsied with a flourish. Propping herself up with her elbows, Claire applauded.

"You look beautiful!"

"As always," Veronica agreed, posing with no humility whatsoever. She was wearing a white blouse that hung off her shoulders and a black bustier with a gold thread lining and pattern. The skirt was off-white and made out of pure cotton, ending down at her ankles.

To be honest, Claire was surprised at the lack of cleavage. "So modest! I can hardly see anything." she snickered.

"Pshaw, you haven't seen me around the men yet. Then you'll find out how modest I am." Veronica retorted in mock bawdiness.

"I'm not going stick around you long enough for that. I don't want to hear any ribald comments being made." Claire said, grabbing a keycard and her wallet, then stuffing them both in the pocket of her waistcoat.

"No fun lady," Veronica pouted.

"Decent lady," Claire disagreed.

-x-

The pirate festival lasted for a week, though they were both leaving tomorrow, and Claire convinced Veronica that if she really needed to, they'd pick up men at that time, since she wasn't thrilled at the idea of having strangers in their hotel room overnight.

Claire was driving them in her Camry towards the mission where the event was being held. A few times, they needed to consult the Mapquest page they printed out, but found the mission with relatively few hitches. The easiest giveaway was the building itself…and all the tricorn hats, plastic hooks, and giggling groups of tweens dressed like older women.

Paying for their admission at the door, -Veronica had lifted a coin purse from between her breasts, and winked at the man collecting- they were ushered into the courtyard of the mission, where a beautiful and ornate fountain stood guard. It was rimmed with lapis lazuli stained tiles, and wildflowers grew trim and collected around the base.

A stage with gold bowers was set up with its back to the fountain, and a man closely resembling Mr. Smee from Disney's animated Peter Pan was rousing the rabble that had gathered in front with good ol' pirate jokes.

"Isn't he cute?" Claire asked Veronica, pointing at the man.

"You like older guys?" she asked in confusion.

Claire's brows furrowed, and answered laughingly, "No way, of course not! I mean cute like a little old grandpa, or puppy kinda cute."

Veronica patted her back and said, "Just stick with young, buff men. 'Kay?" she advised airily.

Claire half-smirked, and nodded. Taking her wrist, Veronica led her over to a stand where they were selling pirate necklaces and merchandise and held up a baby doll shirt that displayed in pink, flowing letters, 'Kiss me, I'm a pirate.'

"Now this is cute. Forget the guys!" Veronica said excitedly. "Well," she added after a short pause and a dubious look from Claire, "forget them for…a little while, at least."

After a quick exchange of cash, Veronica was toting around her new top and a purple rhinestone studded skull and crossbones necklace in plastic bag that said 'Enjoy your day!' with a blue smiley face.

They then veered towards the games area, and had participated in the best dressed pirate competition, yet lost to an adorable five year old bundled up like a replica of Jim Hawkins from the 1950's Treasure Island movie. Walking away from the event, Vera said in disgust, "The kid was sweet and all, but ugh! It was completely judged on cuteness. If I had known, I'd have dressed differently."

"Oh c'mon," Claire said reasonably, "you'd have dressed up like a hag if it would have gotten you an award."

After pursing her lips thoughtfully, Vera said, "Well, a sexy hag, maybe."

A passing couple overheard the conversation and their gazes lingered on Veronica. They looked wary, but made no comment.

-x-

A little while after, they split. Claire enjoyed herself getting involved in many other piratical activities like pin the eye-patch on the pirate, and so on. Veronica had turned to browsing and flirting with many _rogues_ that had attended.

At six-thirty, they both decided it was time to head back to the hotel room and rest up. Besides, the festival closed in an hour, and they still had much of tomorrow to come back.

Veronica was driving this time, and she took a different route than Claire had, gliding along a street that ran parallel to the ocean. From the passenger seat, she looked out calmly at the serene waters, admiring the orange lines that streaked across them, cast by the final, dying rays of the sun.

When they turned back inland, Claire shifted in her seat and closed her eyes, imagining herself on an eighteenth century sailing ship, clinging to the rigging like a monkey, dancing around the shrouds and bounding to the fo'c'sle to rest while the remainder of the crew went topside, belaying nautical terms back and forth.

It was all a nice daydream, but soon she had to help Vera lug back all her souvenirs, none of them men.

After ordering in pizza, and watching Forrest Gump on pay-per-view, they both retired to their own beds, expecting an eight o'clock wakeup call in the morning.

Claire couldn't wait for sunrise.


	4. Whispers of the Sea

**Chapter IV**

**Whispers of the Sea**

They were sailing in sheer darkness, the ocean black and deathly still around them. It melted, merged with the sky, until it became one solid line, and they were gliding in a dense tunnel of night. The stars were dim, and the only source of light was the oil lamps burning intensely from their positions posted around the ship.

It was a magical evening, and the lapping waters greedily licked at the Dutchman's prow like young children flocking to the safety of their mother's skirt. Will was leaning against the gunwale, the flickering of a nearby lamp reflected in his eyes, making them dance with the motion of the flame.

The whisper of the sea hummed in his ears, weaving a smoky, wispy song that made him pleasantly drowsy and warm. It infolded him, seemingly, like a thick coat of otter skins. His eyelids flickered once, twice, and he savored the thought of sleeping for a long time.

But then the whisper became louder, urgent, overlapping.

Jolted, Will snapped to alertness and looked around wildly, for the sound was a shriek now in his ears, echoing from all sides. It was only when he murmured "What is this?"growing fearful, did it fade and separate, all the tones and sounds becoming one.

One he very easily recognized.

It was smooth and rough at the same time, more fluid and less real than he remembered, something so pure and unshaped; the voice of the ocean.

_William Turna'_, Calypso spoke softly, and for a brief flash in time, he swore he felt the breath of air and a tickle by his ear- then it was gone. _William Turna'_, she said again. _You 'ave not set foot on land for hundreds o' years. The sea gives you 'dis opportunity, but ye do not take it._

"I've long ago lost track of my descendants. They cut off all contact with me. I have no reason to go ashore. Why do you tell me this?"

In response, the pounding of the waves against the hull of the ship became more rapid, a deep thudding, almost like a chuckle.

_I tell you nothing ye do not know. But you _do_ know that your men 'ave suffered because of your insecurities about land and your dead wife._

"If they had approached me before about this, I would have taken them!" he argued back.

_But as captain, you should 'ave known they wanted 'dat badly. It is your duty to them!_

"It seems Davy Jones' duty became quite warped, yet he received no scolding." Will said, immediately regretting his foolhardy action. The motion of the waves stilled, and the sails dropped, dead and limp. It was as if the life had been sucked out of them.

_Davy Jones did not do as he was 'sposed to. He suffered for that. You have been very beneficent all these years, William Turna', as have I been to you. Do not renege on the pact that had been made all 'dose years ago._ Calypso's voice was more grating, like the sound of scraping barnacles together. It was clear the mention of Davy Jones did not please her.

"I'm sorry," Will said, genuine and abashed. "I just- I-" he struggled for words, sinking slowly down the rail. All the crew save his father had gone below, and Bootstrap was stalwartly in control of the wheel, seemingly deaf to Will's conversation and took no notice of the sails. Indeed, Bill looked dead ahead, like an animated corpse.

Will stared at his father and his gut clenched in fear. He hoped he had not angered the Goddess so much as to provoke her into doing something terrible against his father as punishment. The sails filled again, like the breath of angels was being blown into them. Calypso's voice returned to his head, this time smooth and calm, like a clear, airy day on the ocean.

_Not to worry, William. Your father is fine. _She promised him. Will nodded, unsure if she could even see the movement or not, yet not really caring. He imagined Calypso didn't care to have their discussion interrupted by any of the hands, even if it would only be one-sided.

_I can see 'dat your heart -_that odd, thumping chuckle again_- is guileless. But hush and listen to me. _She commanded. The thought of not paying attention to the Goddess did not even cross his mind. In fact, since she was virtually _in_ his mind, the task was altogether impossible. Will was down on the deck by now, hands on his knees, patiently waiting for Calypso to continue.

_As you have not been ashore for many years, 'de sea grants ye this favor; all the days collected from your opportunities to step on land have gathered and piled up like a stack 'o pirate treasure. One month and more, you would have now, if ye so chose._

Will gasped. After over two centuries, she had not told him of this option? If he had known, he would have handled so much differently. Things could have been different, things could have been-

_Been what, Captain Turna'? Been what? What do you think you could have changed? Saved your wife, your son? Saved your family from thinking you only a legend that they should be ashamed of?_ Calypso sounded almost scornful, and he could envision the woman he once thought called Tia Dalma shaking her head, the dark dreadlocks swinging back and forth like a hangman's noose swaying in the wind.

But she was right. He did not know what he could have changed, if anything. It didn't make much of a difference now anyway. The past was past, something meant for history books, not something to be thought of.

Will asked softly, "Why do you tell me this now? Why not later?"

_Why _not_ now, little captain? Why not?_

He was silent, holding his breath, as if she wasn't completely finished yet and the slightest noise might end this interlude. The only sounds were the sails flapping, the occasional sigh of the wind, the hiss of the sea. Will entered the trancelike state again, lost within himself, feeling sleepy…

"William, son, are you alright?" Bootstrap shouted down from his position, concern etched into his weathered face. Will's eyes flew open, and he jumped to his feet.

"Yes, I just…_do you not remember anything?_" he was flustered, something that scarce happened to him these days, merely for the lack of anything to cause such distress in ways he did not how to handle.

Bootstrap shook his head in consternation. "What is it I should be rememberin'?"

"Nothing, father." Will said, giving him a weak nod. "Calypso just spoke to me." To his relief, his father did not press him, seeming to understand the need for private intimacy between the Captain of the Flying Dutchman and the Goddess of the ocean.

"I'll see you tomorrow then," Will smiled tiredly, giving Bootstrap a quick, wistful smile, before disappearing into his cabin.

He couldn't wait for sunrise.


	5. Docking

**Chapter V**

**Docking**

As dependable as the sun rising every morning, the Dutchman spotted land just as the first light of dawn graced the sparkling water of the coast of North America. Will gazed upon it with a fondness that seemed both nostalgic and overwhelming. He had the choice still not to go ashore, but it seemed almost as if Calypso was indirectly encouraging him to leave his own issues behind, at least for a little while. He had a month to walk on land…would he take this opportunity now, or let it be, waiting another ten long years?

Yet if he waited, would he have the same resolve to go the next time? Or even after that? If he denied himself this pleasure, who is to say he wouldn't be indefinitely cut off from all contact with land because of his ridiculous fear.

He _knew_ it was absurd and unreasonable. He truly did. But it wasn't pointless, despite it all.

Because as long as his behavior meant something to him, it wasn't pointless. It still didn't mean it was healthy for his mentality either.

So he could stay on the Dutchman, risking the will to roam on solid earth again…or he could confront his problem and join his crew.

The latter was certainly more appealing.

As the sun broke the surface of the water and climbed higher in the sky, the Dutchman approached land ever faster. The light gleamed and glinted off the remarkably tall buildings, dazzling his eyes with their splendor. They looked like radiant, rectangular boxes just reaching to touch the sky.

The harbor was crowded with all sorts of ships and boats, all with far more variety than in any of the ports he had ever looked upon in all his days. There were large barges, with strange metal objects seated upon them, men clambering everywhere. It was a jumble of new sights and smells, all overpowering and completely foreign to them.

Will spun around as a small boat, -perhaps used for fishing, judging by the nets- zipped past him, and the man aboard hollered, "Nice pirate ship!"

Will looked after him quizzically and his crew was all equally mystified. He received many bizarre looks and points. They seemed to have no fear of the Flying Dutchman, the harbinger of death. In fact, everyone awake at this hour seemed to giggle and shout friendly greetings.

Ever since Will took command of the ship, the effigies of tortured humans that littered the hull, mouths open in screaming, silent agony…had faded as if they had never been. The barnacles and sea life too fell away, and a beautiful bronze-gold paint was discovered beneath. The skeletal, ghost-like appearance of the Dutchman ceased to exist, and the Grim Reaper masthead had long ago vanished, leaving the ship looking in all the world like an ordinary fluyt.

So, aside from their dated appearance, and since people seemed unconcerned with their presence here…their biggest problem now…was docking. One of the unwritten laws was that the Dutchman could not dock at a port. Weigh anchor, certainly. Will had done that many times before…but not dock. There was such a collection of ships that there was almost no chance to get in close to land without usage of their longboats, but it was impossible to tell if that would be allowed.

Currency, too, was another problem. If his money would not work, he couldn't very well muscle his way past the harbormaster.

He hoped a variety of coins to choose from was sufficient.

All of his crew were scattered about the ship, uncertain of how to act or conduct themselves. Bootstrap was at the wheel again, surrounded by other officers, and he steered cautiously past all the ships…

…Or large crafts that were floating on water, at least. There were hardly any similarities now between Will's ship and those, and all on the Dutchman were staring around themselves in wide-eyed wonderment, like a little child meeting grandparents for the first time in their memory.

The sun rose steadily higher, casting an orange glow on the newly-risen world. Turning his face towards the brilliant orb, Will shaded his eyes, staring up at it beseechingly, as if the celestial body would provide him answers or help.

He received neither, only a glaring bright light streaming into his vision. He tore his gaze away, settling it on the ship's direction. Currently, they were headed to a less populated section of the port, where it would be easier to drop anchor and launch the longboats.

As they continued to scour the harbor, looking for a place to beach, they noticed that there was no sand to be seen. It was all metal dock, or wood. This was another odd sight for Will, and he had difficulty believing how much had changed.

Still, they sailed along dutifully, hoping for some sign of something, anything, that was familiar to their eyes.

Decades prior, the crew -excluding Will, who opted to stay behind- had shore leave on the island of New Providence, which was once a major pirate base. Nassau -a prime city- had morphed over the years, however, into a wealthy tourist spot, with a healthy, wholesome reputation of relaxing days and exciting nightlife.

Nightlife that didn't entail drunk pirates swaggering over to the lap of the nearest broad.

The crew had also made discoveries about the state of technology. It was only after Finnegan was nearly barreled over by a large, fast moving metal monstrosity did they really stop to examine the line of motionless beasts that gleamed in the hot Caribbean sun. After many inquiries and quests for information, -met with mixed looks of befuddlement, amusement, shock, and quick, wary answers- they gathered that it was a form of transportation of some sort, piloted by humans from within, due to a mechanical breakthrough made years ago.

These transports came in a variety of colors, shapes and forms, with a diversity of dealerships, mileage, and eco-friendly designs. Some of the names mentioned were Chevrolet Corvette, Cadillac Convertible, Buick Century, Ford, and a myriad of other words that meant nothing to them.

The most cherished piece of data was that they best look both ways when crossing the street.

"Captain, look there! See that ship?" Maccus, now Second Mate, was pointing towards a small bark whose sails were fixed breadthways, and with a black and red metal hull. As they continued to drift closer, more recognizable ship forms floated past. Only one of the models appeared to be from the 18th century, yet is looked too new; as if it was a replica. It had an alien feel about it, and did not lessen the agitation of the Flying Dutchman's hands.

The bark's name, however was visible as they passed it, and the lettering 'Star of India' was revealed. Will had heard of that location. It was reputed to have exotic treasures of spices and teas. The ship, he figured, must be a merchant trader from that land, perhaps.

No one was active on deck, and it seemed futile to call out. The same was repeated with the other sailing ships. They seemed inactive.

Finally, a gap opened next to one of those ships, and Bootstrap had given Wheelback control of the helm, steering them smoothly into the spot when Will gave the order. He maneuvered the Dutchman to fit in comfortably, and then they dropped anchor.

With another command from the captain, two longboats were prepared to be lowered, seating ten men each. Old Haddy, a quiet fellow who was already aging when he became indentured to the Flying Dutchman, softly offered to stay behind and watch the ship, explaining patiently that there was nothing here that he wanted to see.

Almost all of the original crew had opted to continue their service, hoping to find redemption with Will as their leader, feeling that they damned themselves by laboring under Jones for all those years. Many of them were beginning to feel the pangs of nostalgia, finding it more and more difficult to cope with the changing times.

They were indeed on the Flying Dutchman for most of these years, but the differences of life were still painfully evident. Will knew that these men; men who he grew very close to, would soon like to pass on to the Other Side. Their years of service had long ago been paid off; they stayed now only out of loyalty to their captain.

The longboats hit the water, and the men began to row towards the wharf, where a very surprised -and sour- looking harbormaster waited with a clipboard in hand, staring them down shrewdly, as he would if he were judging whether a man were sane or not.

When they reached the dock, the harbormaster approached them slowly. Will leapt out of the boat and moved forward to intercept the man before he bit off the heads of one of his crew. He looked just about ready to do so.

"What is this-this _boat_ doing here?" He asked snappishly.

"Why, docking, sir." Will answered in his most influential tone. He gave a charming smile.

"Do you have a permit?" There was so much tension in the man's voice, it sounded like he was about to pop.

"Pardon?" Will asked, confused by the question. "I have payment, if that's what you mean."

The harbormaster's expression grew very suspicious and guarded.

"What…_kind_ of payment?" He said the very seriously, and in a hushed tone.

Will's crew stood awkwardly behind him, unsure of what quiet words were being exchanged by the two. They could hear nothing, and itched to move forward to listen better. They knew, of course, that their captain -and the harbormaster- would not appreciate that. So they stood at a distance, fidgeting and anxious.

Will reached into a pocket of the frock coat that he was wearing, and his hand emerged, clutching a fistful of coins.

"Well, I'm not sure what currency you use, but I have crusadoes, deniers, daalders, guineas, doubloons, pieces of eight…"

The words were all complete nonsense to the harbormaster, who lived a sheltered life with his hen pecking wife and three kids in San Diego, California. He had no clue what a denier was. The only thing that came to mind for him was a diner. A guinea sounded vaguely familiar, but he was sure he associated that with small, furry rodents…

However, when this bizarre, no doubt insane man mentioned doubloons and pieces of eight, he pictured squawking pirate parrots immediately. He squinted his beady eyes and said, "What d'you mean, pieces of eight? I don't want any plastic crap."

Will wasn't sure what 'plastic' or 'crap' was, but it was clear the man wanted neither of them. He did, however, seem intrigued by the prospect of pieces of eight.

Will had traveled the oceans of the world, and, when sometimes stumbling into the deserted rooms that once belonged to wealthy passengers in crashed ships, his men would loot and raid their possessions. While Will did not approve, the majority of his crew were pirates, and the people were, after all…dead. He would put a limit to this pillaging, and if a personal item was taken, he would of course order his hands to put it back.

He divided the rest between his crew and himself, and he personally kept his own money saved, to use for times like this.

"When I say pieces of eight, I mean the Spanish coin, sir," Will pocketed the rest of the unwanted money, and a sad look flashed across the man's face at this action, yet Will still held up the item of interest, "The total value equal eight reales. Would this appease you? I'm afraid I have no permit to speak of."

The harbormaster's reaction clearly showed he understood none of this, but he noted the white-grey color of the coin, and inquired, "Is it…silver?"

"Most assuredly." Will replied. This interaction reminded him of his years as a Blacksmith's apprentice, delivering swords he crafted to wealthy, posh clientele who knew next to nothing about fencing, but wanted to hang the weapons above their hearths, if only for aesthetics and boasting rights.

"Yeah, yeah, sure. Good." The man said. "You got any more?"

"Yes," Will replied, digging once again in his pocket and pulling out two more pieces of eight. "Are these enough?"

"Silver? You sure?" The harbormaster repeated.

"Yes."

The man snatched the coins away greedily and tucked them into his wallet, which he pulled out, hunkering over it protectively before sticking it in his back pocket.

"You must be here for the pirate festival…" The man remarked, with a thin-lipped and rather unpleasant smile. "Hmpph." With one last, shifty, distrusting glare at Will and his crew, the harbormaster sauntered off self-importantly. That surely meant the transaction was done.

Will could tell, this would be a long day.


	6. This Thing Called the Future

**Chapter VI**

**This Thing Called the Future**

"Captain, did you hear what he said about there bein' a pirate festival?" Bootstrap asked from behind Will, walking up after the harbormaster had left their section of the dock.

"Yes, but it didn't occur to me that asking him about it would have been a wise decision."

"True enough." Bootstrap agreed, nodding. "Well, Captain, lead the way." He inclined his head and gestured to the land.

Will smiled, and began to walk forward, believing that he betrayed none of the anxieties he felt. He hadn't touched land for over two hundred years; how much had it changed? He'd forgotten how sturdy it felt under his feet, having known only the bucking and rolling of a ship all that time.

Or, how it would feel, surely.

He still hadn't gotten off the dock yet. Admittedly, his pace was noticeably slower than his usual gait. One who knew Will would almost call him _stalling_. Bootstrap sensed this hesitation in his son and he whispered "For Elizabeth," encouragingly.

Will stopped and turned to stare at his father inquisitively for a moment, before smiling regretfully and resuming to walk ahead- faster this time.

He had no qualms about allowing his crew to speed before him, so eager they were to return to land after all those years. They did not begrudge Will for that, however; it was not in malevolence that he held them back, only his sadness barring him from returning every ten years.

At the dawn of the 19th Century, a new age of society was arising, and Will's descendents grew less and less pleased about their 'duty' to receive him every year. Finally, when it reached the point of madness- the coldness with which they greeted him, he finally stopped visiting his family, knowing that he was no longer welcome.

His heart he still entrusted to them, however, secure in the fact that it was one family tradition that they would not renege on. Still, it was with deep depression that he bid the final farewell to his descendents, though they held little remorse for their parting.

It was unbearable for Will to return to land after that, finding no reason to do so anyway, except for his crew. As he had stated to his father before, during the time of the decades when the Dutchman did not anchor offshore, had anyone approached him about it, he would have had no trouble in allowing them time to spend on solid earth.

Will remained cautiously in tow, Bootstrap loyally at his side, and he was thankful for his company. He was also grateful that his crew had all gone ahead, thinking it the best course of action as he had not touched land since some time in the early 1800s.

He trusted their knowledge enough for them to stop him from getting bowled over by one of those bizarre 'car' things.

Will halted.

This was where the trial began. Bootstrap pointed at a metal object that had two poles intersecting at the middle, with a long tube leading down into the ground. A turnstile was what Bill called it.

He walked forward first, showing Will how to pass through.

His son slid past it slowly, eyeing the as if it would jump alive at any second and begin to gnaw at his legs. When he got to the other side, he hovered over it for a moment, inspecting it with curiosity.

"What's it for?" he asked, peering down at it and running his fingers over the cold surface.

"I don't rightly know." Bootstrap shrugged. "It must not be meant to keep you penned in. It doesn't work like that."

"No, of course not." Will agreed. "But look at this workmanship! Smooth as glass." There were times when the blacksmith still shone out in him.

"Look over 'ere, Cap'n!" hollered Clanker from above a slope. "This is where the street is!"

Will didn't seem reassured by that information.

He continued forward nonetheless, adjusting to the solid feel of earth- it took some getting used to, and the going was still at a measured pace. His crew found it both amusing and pityingly sad at once- though they were only _slightly_ more confident.

Still, their enthusiasm had more control of them than their uncertainties and fear.

Father and son trekked up the low incline to the street level, and Will nearly reeled with shock. Loud, booming sounds roared past him, shooting by like roundshot bursting from cannons in a violent fight.

"Alright, steady now Captain, this is how we cross the street." Maccus approached him, gesturing to a point at which the crew were all assembled, waiting patiently and attracting more than a few looks. "Wait for the symbol of a running man to appear in that black box hanging from that large pole before us." he said.

To Will, this seemed a strange and foreign ritualistic gathering spot of sorts, but he hesitantly obeyed the instructions nonetheless.

At the moment, a crudely drawn, red hand was in the box that Maccus had indicated. Will waited with baited breath. All too soon, it flickered, and a running man showed up, -though in truth, it look more like chunky white lines-.

But this seemed to be the right signal, and Will's crew all surged forward in one great, clustered mass. The metallic beasts, _the cars,_ he corrected himself, had all halted for them, though some continued to drive parallel to them.

He kept glancing over, worried that one would veer off and steer directly towards them. His breath caught.

This was all too much. He should have stayed behind.

"William," Bootstrap whispered softly. Will understood that he was almost at the end of the street now, and he wouldn't cross it again without any fruits of his labor. It was pure idiocy to turn around now.

A few steps later, Will found that he loved the safety of this thing called the 'sidewalk' very, very much.

The cars still rumbled past him, but Bootstrap assured him that they could not harm them while they remained on these blocks of stone. Will was still dubious about this, but he trusted his father's claim.

He had no other choice, at this point.

An older, graying woman approached them, her ridiculously small, fluffy white dog at the end of its leash, yapping at them incessantly.

"Why, look at you men!" She teased. "What pirates!"

Will's crew shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. They left it to their captain once again to handle this situation. He walked forward, cautious of the dog, who quelled its barking when he neared its mistress, sniffing him calmly.

Ignoring the feel of a curious, wet nose snuffling his boots, Will swept into a bow, and took the woman's hand, pressing it to his lips gently. "Only if you say so, madam."

He reminded himself of Jack, sometimes. That man's influence _never_ rubbed off.

"You ruffian, playing the gentleman with an old granny." The lady chuckled.

Will gave a courteous smile, then he asked, "Could you point us in the direction of the pirate gathering? My comrades and I have lost our way."

The woman looked thoughtful, and said regretfully, "Oh, no, I'm sorry, dear. I wouldn't know where that was."

Will couldn't hide the disappointment on his face.

"That's alright. We'll ask around."

"Good luck, you scoundrels!" The woman said playfully, giving a mischievous look at all the men assembled on the sidewalk before continuing on her way.

Will's heart sank, uncertain of how to conduct himself in less accidental situations. Acting like a false pirate seemed to have worked thus far, but he really had only encountered two people for short amounts of time, one of whom was won over by means of persuasion.

"Hey, you!" A thin, lanky youth with shoulder-length blonde-brown hair approached them. "I couldn't help but overhear that you're looking for the pirate festival?" He asked them.

A few heads bobbed unsurely, and Will, their spokesman, said, "Yes, we are. Do you have any information for us?"

"Yep. I'm heading there myself. It's a little further inland, and I _definitely_ don't have enough room in my van for all you guys, but if you don't mind walking, I can point you in the right direction.

Will flooded with relief. "That's the best news I've heard all day. Where is it?"

The youth turned around to face the direction that the main street was heading towards, and he pointed down it, saying, "You'll wanna head that direction for about five stoplights, make a right by the coffee shop at the corner of the intersection, walk three or four blocks until you see the sign 'Al's bakery', turn left, and just keep it up until you see a mission, which is where you'll wanna go!"

Will was silent for a moment, processing all this seemingly gibberish information in his mind, before finally saying, "Thank you for your help."

"You're welcome buddy! See you there, guys." The youth said, giving Will a clap on the back and a mock salute the men.

Once the youth had walked off towards a parking lot, keys jangling, -Will couldn't understand _what _they were for- Maccus sighed and said, "This may take some time, Captain."

"Yes, but how much?"

-x-

The instructions were easier to follow than they expected. The found the mission with only two problems, which were figuring out what 'coffee' was, and crossing the street.

Will still distrusted the cars.

They had entered an older part of town, and they had seen the occasional pirate or two disappear around a corner. They were scattered about, and few, so Will decided that it would be safer if he chose not to follow them, as the youth's directions had not yet led them astray.

Indeed, the mission soon appeared before them, and Will was just about ready to throw himself at it in joy, which refrained from doing.

He headed towards the entrance, where a wench was collecting payment. _Payment? _He echoed to himself internally. When did pirate gatherings collect an admittance fee?

He pulled out his Spanish doubloons and pieces of eight again, now in a convenient draw-string pouch. Any manner of money would sway a pirate's greedy heart.

Will started forward, jaw set.

He was so close!

-x-

As he passed through, a few coins lighter, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Persuasion was a very handy thing indeed.

_Thank you, Jack Sparrow._


	7. A Day of Surprises

**Chapter VII**

**A Day of Surprises**

"Everybody was kung-fu fighting! Those kicks were fast as lightning!"

"Could you not do that?" Vera asked Claire, suppressed laughter causing her voice to tremble. Her hand reached out to the dial on the dashboard, turning down the volume of the car radio, which was currently blasting.

Claire was wailing out the lyrics of Carl Douglas' song, Kung-Fu Fighting, in such a quavering, warbling voice that it was nearly impossible to tell if she was performing a mock impersonation, or if she was imitating one of the very worst auditions for _American Idol_, or another hit TV competition.

In fact, her key and tune were so off -and so _loud-_ that Claire's singing had the very much undesired effect of causing neighboring cars to glare at them from their positions alongside the SUV, currently hovering before a stoplight as they were.

Claire rolled up her window to mute the sound, smirking privately at the mild-looking, forty-something man who was wearing brackish-colored, checkered shorts and using this interval to cross the street. Claire's behavior was lost on him, for he was staring pointedly at the miniscule crack in the sidewalk that was his destination, as he should be.

After all, everyone knows that trying to look all around yourself and attempt to investigate every little noise -discover every little rotten sounding singer within the confines of a car- in the middle of the road is a very unwise thing to do.

You may be injured. You may be killed.

Even worse, your checkered, brackish-brown colored shorts may be photographed by a rogue, roaming group of disposable camera enthusiasts (the Kodak kind, more specifically) and then sold via black market to a well-known corporate giant, whose CEO found the picture funny, and then sent it to a fashion magazine, where you were mocked mercilessly, and thus entered exile, living out your days as a hermit in the Himalayas, where you die contentedly at forty-two facedown in the snow.

Claire snorted at the ludicrous thought.

"What now?" Veronica asked shrewdly, recognizing the signs that proved her friend just had an epiphany concerning brackish-colored, checkered shorts.

By now, the man had safely reached the sidewalk, neither in the Himalayas nor featured as a 'fashion disaster' in Vogue magazine, and walked calmly home to feed his dog.

"Oh, I just had a funny thought." Claire replied complacently, omitting the details.

Which was quite nearly everything.

Shrugging, Veronica left it at that, knowing full well that some things that floated around in Claire's brain were just not meant for the rest of humankind.

Changing the course of her thoughts, Claire then brought up, "Oh, and by the way…_why_ would we need an SUV to pick up men? Don't you think they have their own cars?" The lilt in her tone suggested that Vera was a little off her rocker when she thought of the idea.

"Well yes," Veronica responded, "but hey, you'd feel safer if one of us drove, right? And we're going to need a whole ton of room for guys that we've met. Speaking of which, I've got at least five numbers from last night. Oh shoot!" she said, one hand snapping the air in frustration, "I left them in the hotel room. Oh well, some of them might be here today. There was this one really cute-"

Claire interrupted politely, "Vera, if we were meeting them at a public place, we could always drive _separately_." She pronounced it like she was introducing Veronica to a foreign word.

Regaining control over her often over-active hormones, Veronica said, "Right, I know that too, but it's a really good way to get to know people. After all, the only thing to do in a car is talk! Unless, of course, you're stopped. Then you have a whole bunch of activities you can perform…"

Claire finally gave ground and said, "Okay, so let's just say the idea has merit."

Veronica gave a small laugh. "Whatever you say, sweetie."

Reaching the parking lot of the mission, they got out of the SUV and walked towards the entrance, getting in line behind a mob of men in amazingly authentic looking costume and they had a young man at their lead, who was wearing a green bandana.

Veronica dipped her head down to Claire's, and whispered, "Hey, he's fairly cute! How about I go ask his name, huh?"

Claire chuckled and hissed back, "You're incorrigible."

"Oh c'mon, you know I'm going to!"

"What, are you trying to _imply_ something?" Claire laughed.

"Oh, always." Vera replied.

Claire's mother had once remarked some years ago, "That friend of yours is very sweet, but when you two girls are together, you act like children!"

There was no way to make a witty excuse or mumble something about the psychic bond between them.

It was true, completely and utterly inescapably. But hey, 'that's what friends are for', the saying goes. More or less.

When the mob entered the mission, Veronica and Claire paid their admission fees and followed after. Vera peered around the wide courtyard for the young man, spotting him at the far side of the square. He looked anxious and stuck very close to his gang, all of whom shared the same expression.

Veronica shrugged, with a concealed point in their direction. "Oh, I don't know. He and his friends seem really worried. I guess I shouldn't get involved…at the moment."

Claire patted her back and said wisely, "Self restraint is a stepping stone on the road to purity."

Vera growled, but not unkindly, "Oh shut up, you."

Claire sniggered. "Aww, don't you think that was profound of me?"

"Not any more so than Yoda." Veronica said sneeringly.

Claire feigned gasping in horror. "How dare you insult the wise and venerable Jedi master?"

Rolling her eyes and making no comment, save a laugh, Veronica patted Claire on the head indulgently.

"It's great to know you care." Claire said dryly. Vera smirked.

-x-

Will was at a loss of what to do. There appeared to be a myriad of activities to do, but this did not have the feel a pirate gathering. He even saw tiny children running around, looking _happy_. That was, beyond a doubt, abnormal. This was no pirate gathering!

"Alright, men, disperse if you'd like. But act sociably; this…_pirate gathering _is not as it seems."

The crew disbanded, forming smaller groups that huddled together and roved around the square cautiously. Some of the crewmen were from more contemporary times, and so, found it easier to adjust, but fewer and fewer joined his crew, still choosing not to believe in him. More commonly, superstitions had diminished noticeably.

It was still there, but not as strong as it once was.

The result of that was less persons gathered upon his deck, ready for judgment. Only a meager number of a few hundred trickled through each year, and for over thirty years, no one feared death. It was a remarkable thing- _a good thing_, but it pronounced the passing of time even more, saddening Will further.

He turned to follow a small knot of children, who looked like they were heading somewhere important, when he froze, and a confused, energetic feeling was sent whizzing all through his body, freezing him mid-step and stopping his heart -metaphorically speaking-.

There was a man in the process of sashaying over towards a lovely blonde wench who eyed him coyly, an average thing at pirate gatherings, but something was so distinctly, tantalizingly familiar that the temptation seduced him completely.

Will walked forward a few paces. He couldn't resist. There was no harm done if he was proven wrong. The urge was entirely overwhelming.

He asked loudly, "Jack Sparrow?" he added hastily, "Captain."

The fellow spun on his heel, leaving the blonde annoyed. She tromped away angrily.

But the man- _the man_…there was the beaded, adorned hair, the braided beard, the kohl-rimmed eyes…just as Will remembered him. The corners of the man's mouth twitched, spreading out in a dazzling golden teeth filled grin. It was like he was chewing a mouthful of coins.

"Whelp!" he said enthusiastically.

**Chapter VII, part II**

The man approached leisurely, taking his time. His gait was unusual, arms flung out, hips swaying. It was so familiar though, so very good to see. So normal.

Will was too stunned to move. Now that they were closer, the man had a better look at him. "Ah. Still cursed by the afore-instated curse, I see. Sorry 'bout that, mate."

Captain Jack Sparrow hadn't changed much over the years.

His skin was smoother, his hair less wiry, gleaming with a far younger luster. It was hard to tell, however, as it was still dreadlocked. Less lines marred his face, and he seemed, shockingly, cleaner. So did his clothing; as if it was used only on occasion.

Although it was not his original garb, it looked very similar; still a haphazard assortment of garments and accessories that looked like he threw them on in the dark. His fingers were bejeweled with glamorous rings, but they were, most likely, fake.

A colorful sash was tied around his waist and knotted at the hip. His sword -in its sheath- remained steadfastly buckled on, and a baldric was draped over one shoulder.

Everything was still _new _though, even Jack, who looked only a few years older than Will now. He _must_ have found the Fountain of Youth. There was no other explanation, save some other half-known curse, charm or spell of some manner. But the Fountain of Youth was the most recent of Jack's schemes for immortality, in Will's knowledge.

He noted, with a second glance, that the old pirate's compass was gone, and under the tricorn hat, the red bandana persisted still. It was worn, frayed, patched and faded ten times over; a relic from the past, but it alone was familiar.

It, along with those chocolate eyes, which were smiling at Will fondly.

"It's very good to see you." Will breathed, his own eyes still wide. So much had happened, so very much that it was hard to keep track of all the fantastical events. Was it even midday yet? He didn't believe so. It was unbelievable. "You look good, Jack."

The captain frowned. "Now, the last time I heard that from a Turner, I was given the black spot." He stared at Will mistrustfully. "You aren't going to give me the black spot…are you?"

Will smiled warmly. "No Jack, I'm not. It really _is_ good to see you." It was. The chances of meeting his old companion here were marginal, but it seemed fortune -or fate- had led them both to that one spot. Jack surely must have been keeping up with the times far easier, being able to live on land, and so Will had a man he trusted -for the moment- to guide him.

Jack returned the smile, if a little lopsidedly. He leaned forward, right up in Will's face, before realizing his miscalculated the distance between them and righted himself, putting a hand on Will's shoulder. "You too, whelp." He paused. "Now I need to find some rum."

Jack's complete acceptance of the situation wasn't very surprising to Will; the man had undergone so many countless bizarre, sudden and unexplainable circumstances that this encounter almost seemed commonplace.

Besides, Will himself was still too much in the clutches of shock to be bothered by it. If anything, he welcomed it, if a little dazedly.

"Jack, do you really need any more rum? You look like you've had a generous helping already." Will smiled.

A man standing behind him bitterly muttered, "Let him die of consumption! That would be a miracle." Will spun around faster than Jack had the time to react, an argument already forming in his mind. The man brought up a completely unprovoked and vicious attack, of which he had absolutely no right to.

The words died on his lips, and Will stared, unable to say anything.

Instead, Jack approached and defended himself. "I'm not drunk." He stated. "If I were, I would be seeing three of you. At the moment, I'm only seeing two, which, coincidentally, is more of you than I care to gaze upon." He stopped, for an instant, considering. "Well, to be honest, which I'm not, I'm half drunk. Or two-fourths drunk. Or three-sixths drunk. Whichever you'd prefer, really. I'm open for suggestions, you know. But not, most likely, from you." Jack explained.

He staggered off purposefully, and it was only diminished by the fact that he stood in the middle of the courtyard with no apparent destination. Not that that he needed one, really. He was, after all, Captain Jack Sparrow.

Will's gaze was still fixated on the man, who was scowling in the direction of where Jack had sauntered off to. The man was older, bearded, with a broad-brimmed hat and a capuchin monkey perched comfortably on his shoulder. The man was Hector Barbossa.

The monkey was, presumably, Jack the Monkey.

He smiled tight-lipped and humorlessly at Will. "Aye, ye must be wonderin' how both me an' Jack are here. Me in particular."

"Yes…" Will said slowly, the gears in his brain whirring and clicking, desperate for things to make sense, starving for information. He could only nod like a simpleton.

Barbossa had opened his mouth to explain, when Jack came back onto the scene, his timing flawless.

"Well it's like this…" Jack began. Barbossa glared at him but shut his mouth, pursing it into a thin, hard line.

"Some years after you became captain of your own little ship, the Pirate Court was destroyed by the East India Company, and it wasn't long before they soon began the eradication of the rest of the pirates. By this time, dear miss Lizzie had long ago resigned from her position as Pirate King, which left us all to our bickering again. Savvy?"

He didn't wait for Will to say anything. He simply continued.

"During this time, I was on a quest to get me ship back from a no-good slimy double-crosser."

Barbossa coughed. "If I may interject-"

Jack talked over him. "I was also looking for the Ountinfay foay Outhyay before _he_ got there." He cocked his head at Barbossa, and was also referring to the Fountain of Youth in pig-latin, no doubt due to the vast number of people around them.

"And guess what…I got there before him!" His tone took on one of mocking.

Barbossa narrowed his eyes but finished for Jack. "And that left _me_, also seeking immortality, to revert back to my…ah," he chose his words carefully, "previous condition." He pulled a gold coin from his pocket, flashing it before Will's eyes only briefly before slipping it in again.

But it was enough.

Will didn't need to see the Aztec symbol to know what it was. Barbossa had intentionally cursed himself, so desperate he was for immortality.

Jack was still gloating.

"And you've been cursed that way for so long?" Will asked Barbossa, ignoring Jack's antics. The man was smirking infuriatingly and making faces at the monkey, who stared at him balefully and made irritated chattering noises.

Barbossa nodded. "Aye, so I have. However, ye can only step foot on land but once ev'ry ten years," he said. "So I think that _my_ curse is far more favorable than yours, Mr. Turner."

Will could say nothing about it. While Barbossa's situation wasn't desirable, he had much more freedom than Will…unless he chose to become another Davy Jones. The answer was clear to him however.

He would never let that happen.

"So, that doesn't explain what you both are doing here. For that matter- what _is_ this place?"

Jack was still too distracted to say anything in response. Will was pleased about that, however, since his answers were slurred and difficult to understand.

"This is a festival, imitating but oft romanticizing pirates." Barbossa said grimly. "Jack and I attend these events so that we may…reminisce on old times." He cracked a small, sardonic smile, nodding his head slightly. "And- before ye ask the question, Jack and I don't come together. We live in the same district and so end up going to the same festivals." The smile vanished completely. Barbossa looked morose.

"S'not my fault he moved in a few blocks away." Jack retorted, his attention finally focused on the conversation. He grinned. "He was none too pleased to find out who his neighbor was."

Barbossa still looked sullen.

Their predicament was strangely humorous to Will, who found it funny that the two were in an almost comical circumstance. To them, it was surely as if their rival had unwittingly pledged themselves in marriage to the other's sister, but from an uninvolved perspective, it was amusing.

"So you both come to these…imitation festivals to behave as you did in the old days?" Will asked, his curiosity aroused.

"Aye," Barbossa nodded. He, like Jack, looked healthier and cleaner, the jaundice afflicting his eyes was gone, his nails were clean, less brittle and much shorter, his skin less dry and his hair not as long. His beard was trimmed neatly, and even Jack the Monkey appeared groomed.

It was a drastic change from the weathered, unclean pirate that Will once sailed with.

"Why all these questions, mate? When's the last time you've been on land? Fifty years ago?" Jack laughed, and clapped Barbossa on the back, acting as if he'd said something funny. Hector hunched his shoulders and scowled.

When Will grew suddenly solemn, making no move to answer, Barbossa raised his chin and observed, "Ah, so it's been a while now, has it?"

"Yes," he replied, quieter and more subdued.

Jack, sensing the tension that was filling the air, felt a brief moment of nervousness, before energetically saying, "Great reunion, Will! Lovely. Now, for the drinks! What do you say to that, then? Aye?"

Will could tell that Jack swiftly meant to bring the topic back to rum, hoping desperately for a chance at ample rounds of alcohol.

"Do you never give up?" He asked, though he knew the answer all ready.

Jack's bright smile faded as he looked down thoughtfully for an instant, then brought his head up and said with the same vigor as before, "No!"

"This is madness." Barbossa growled irately. "Just buy yerself a drink, Jack, and be done with it!"

"Hector, Hector," Jack scolded gently, "Why would I buy meself a drink if I can get me good ol' pal Willy here to do it! Right, mate?" he directed his last question at Will, winking as if to imply something concerning generosity and coin spendage.

"Jack, I won't let you volunteer me for paying your fees." Will said sternly, the last vestiges of surprise evaporating, replaced instead with logic and wary actions. Jack, along with Barbossa, were two of the people he trusted most and less in the world.

_Especially_ Barbossa and his sneaky monkey.

Hector grinned like a feral animal. "Ah, you see now, Jack, Bill's boy has outgrown you. No longer can you bully him into doing your plans or desires."

Jack looked put upon, and pouted in an almost petulant manner, resembling a naughty child whose toy has been taken away. "I can bloody well try!" he objected ostentatiously, drawing a few looks from people nearby.

"It won't do you any good." Will said bitterly, now growing quickly irritated by the captain and his childlike behavior.

A look of surprise flitted across Jack's face, betraying his amazement at being rejected by Will. He opened his mouth to retort, but seemed to remember that Will was still Captain of the Flying Dutchman, and quickly hastened to undue his actions.

"Terribly sorry, whelp. You're absolutely right. I'll buy me own drinks from now on, and you won't need to pay a penny. Savvy?"

Will assumed a penny was some form of payment, and so he nodded, relieved that the man had tact enough to change his tactics. Jack was heading into dangerous territory.

"Savvy." He replied thankfully. Jack beamed. That was one confrontation avoided. Will and Barbossa were fast becoming tired of Jack and his nagging.

"Can we move on to something _useful_?" Barbossa hissed.

"Gladly." Will said, eager to move on from the awkward subject.

"Let's be off then."

Today would be a day full of surprises.


	8. A Slight Case of Mayhem

A/N Well, it's been quite some time, hasn't it? I'm very, sincerely sorry! I would have gotten this chapter out sooner if my internet problems hadn't intervened…my connection kept getting cut off unexpectedly.

I may blink on and off again, so be prepared.

**Chapter VIII**

**A Slight Case of Madness**

Having missed the less-than-appetizing continental breakfast hosted in the hotel, Claire bought a simple turkey sandwich and settled down to eat on the edge of the fountain, chewing thoughtfully.

Claire never liked continental breakfasts. The cream cheese had an aftertaste, and the orange juice was thin and had no pulp. Never a big coffee drinker, Claire tended to avoid that as well, and the milk was never the kind she liked to drink.

Claire wasn't a picky eater.

She could eat spicy food – with three glasses of water, granted – and was always more than willing to sample exotic recipes. She didn't eat like a model (e.g. One grapefruit a day, if even _that)_, and she ordered the occasional hamburger when dining with her family at Hamburger Hamlet for Mother's Day.

But she would _not_ eat a continental breakfast at a three star hotel. The hotel was lovely, and the room they rented was very cozy. It had nothing to do the Holiday Inn itself, respectively.

I just so happened that a croissant, a large portion of cream cheese and too many muffins combined with a five year old Claire had…_dissuaded_ her from such meals in the future.

It was a silly reason not to take advantage of the food.

It had been, after all, twenty years ago, but every time she got a whiff of those combinations, she felt nauseated and dashed to the bathroom.

She was fine with bagels the rest of the time. Indeed, she loved bagels.

But not bagels from hotels, where their origin was in question.

Although it was only a quarter after nine in the morning, Claire substituted the turkey sandwich for breakfast. It was, after all, the most important meal of the day.

And that was, after all, the meal she skipped the most.

Besides, it was very relaxing to just take the time to sit down and enjoy the fun-filled atmosphere of the pirate festival. Veronica was milling around somewhere, spending her time flirting and trying to play games to win prizes.

In time, Claire would jump in as well, but for now…she was happy that her turkey sandwich was keeping her company.

-x-

The three men -and the monkey- had moved to a more secluded location of the square, under cover of the colonnade, where they might be less easily overheard. They weren't particularly worried, for in the event that someone chanced to overhear them, most would dismiss it as friends all chatting in a very piratical manner.

What better time to get in touch with your inner pirate than on Talk Like A Pirate's Day itself?

"Is there any exact reason that the pirate festival is being hosted today?" Will asked, looking highly uncomfortable about the circumstances with which he found himself dragged into yet again.

"Oh, yes. Good fancy reason for that." Jack smirked, stooping down to inspect the remarkable cracks in the stone.

Barbossa frowned, cringing.

"Aye, there's a reason indeed. It so happens that once ev'ry year, on September 19th, an…_unofficial_ holiday, you might call it, has sprung into existence. It's named Talk-"

"Talk Like A Pirate Day." Jack interrupted, as per usual.

Will disliked the cunning gleam in Jack's eyes, for whenever the old captain had a look like _that_, it was wise you tuck your tail between your legs and run for high ground.

"Well, what is its significance then?" Will pressed, hasty to piece together the logic of the tumultuous madness that surrounded him.

Having been at sea and distanced from the modern world for so long, all of the aspects that most would find commonplace, such as the smell of fresh hotdog stands, or the convenience of indoor plumbing was confusing and alien to Will.

His predicament was both tragic and comically funny all at once.

All at his expense.

Jack smirked, fixing Will with a sideways grin.

"You research the history about it, an' you'll find how two mates called Ol' Chumbucket and Cap'n Slappy made up a false private holiday, and so proclaimed that September 19th should be the day when everyone throws dirt in their mouths and starts talkin' like the old pirate curs. Savvy?"

Will nodded, so Jack continued.

"Now, by world standards, this holiday is a very young one, having been established in 1995. People these days have no bloody clue what we sounded like, so instead of sayin' a decent 'hello' today, they'll clap you heartily on the back with a loud, 'Arr, mate! How be ye?'"

Will choked as Jack gave him a strong slap on the back, reenacting the greeting to emphasize its lunacy. With a mischievous grin, he added, "And instead of agreeing in any manner of normal fashion, they'll think it dashing to shout, 'Aye, avast!' Only stupid whelps would say that when it isn't _s'possed_ to be said.

His subtle jab served as a reminder of the days when Will first spent his time with Jack as his pirate accomplice and knew absolutely nothing on how to behave.

"It's a backwards time, and everyone acts like imbeciles." Barbossa grimaced.

Jack smiled warmly, "Ah, but mate, at least you get to wear your hat again."

The other captain nodded sullenly. "Aye, that's true."

"But, back to the subject at hand," Jack addressed Will again, "It's always celebrated on this day, September 19th supposedly on one of the birthday of one of the founder's ex-wife."

Will was about to question Jack what exactly an 'ex-wife' was, but supposed that he would only draw the man's attention away from a decidedly more important topic. So, he said nothing and listened.

"But that's just all popular rumor. You see, no one ever realized the importance of September 19th."

Jack paused, smiling lopsidedly.

"Well?" Will asked, too tired to do anything but give the man exactly what he wanted.

"It's all for me!" Jack pointed to his chest proudly.

"Beg pardon?" Will was having difficulty understand what he meant by that.

Barbossa wore a pained expression on his face. "Few know now, as they did back then, that September 19th is the date of the birth of Jack Sparrow."

"Aye," Jack agreed with enthusiasm, "The Immortal Captain Jack Sparrow popped out from 'tween mum's thighs during a raging typhoon in the Indian Ocean. Imagine that!" He poked Barbossa's chest triumphantly, face alight with insane joy.

"I bet _your_ mum was nothin' more than a-"

Will stopped listening to the conversation from there, intent on mulling over this new information. Fragments of their insults wafted into his ears occasionally.

"I don't care to bicker with ye about your petty claims of having ancestry of any kind, Jack."

"Oh, touchy, are we? You know, you never told me who claimed paternity of your bloody monkey!"

"Are you suggesting something that ye shouldn't?"

"Shouldn't I?"

Recognizing the warning signs, Will left the two captains behind him and thought it wise to alert Maccus and his father what they should look out for.

Returning to the full-on bloom of sunlight, Will blinked and peered around for any of his wandering crew. He spotted a small cluster of his deckhands meandering around the southwest section of the square, looking relatively peaceful and increasingly calmer by the moment.

That was very good, but not what he was looking for.

With one last glance at Jack and Barbossa – who hadn't still noticed his disappearance –

he abandoned them and headed towards the central section of the courtyard, where he'd have a better view.

From behind him, he could still hear traces of Jack's whining.

"Well, that monkey has worse breath than me! What do you feed him? Human heads?"

Will chuckled and shook his head. That man never aged.

Physically or mentally.

-x-

Crumpling the plastic that the turkey sandwich was wrapped with in her hand, Claire was about to stand and throw it away, then search out Veronica. However, a hand fell lightly on her shoulder, arresting her movement and startling her half out of her wits.

She jumped and was about to throw herself at her attacker with the can of pepper spray she always kept somewhere on her personage after the incident with Martin.

Sensing her panic and clearly not intending to cause her any bodily harm, certainly not in the middle of a bright, crowded square, the hand withdrew, as did the wrist, arm and body it was attached to.

Not usually one to pounce on others, Claire was feeling offended and invaded by this intrusion, and she snapped irritably at the man, "What?"

He looked a little taken aback, and his hand still hovered a few inches above her shoulder.

"I'm sorry, I just had a question for you, miss." He replied, his expression shocked but quickly reshaping itself to an apologetic and sheepish smile.

Claire relaxed, feeling suddenly incredibly mortified and abashed. She wanted to just melt into the ground, her cheeks turning bright red. Although, it was true, the man had absolutely no right to touch her – however lightly – she did over-react, and felt quite embarrassed about her outburst.

She was all for the whole 'first impressions' deal, but she just about ruined it now.

With an awkward and forced laugh, Claire admitted, "It's alright. I did jump on you a bit there too."

Now it was the man's turn to look bewildered.

"I'm sorry, what do you mean?"

Claire didn't understand his question. "What?" This was getting funny and absurd all at once. "What do you mean by 'what do you mean'?"

The man shook his head, a wry smile on his face. "I didn't understand the phrase you used. What did you mean by you 'jumped on me'?" He had a small accent, a certain lilt that she associated somewhere in the UK.

He had to have been a foreigner to the United States, which would explain why he didn't understand the term. If they didn't use the term there…of course. But she didn't know.

Wait – what?

This was getting confusing.

"Oh, I see. That term isn't literal. It just means that I snapped irritably at you before you even had a chance to speak."

"Ah." The man replied, unsure of what to do now.

Shaking her head as if to clear away all the confusion, and started over, extending her hand.

"I think we should do this the right way. I'm Claire."

The man grinned and took the proffered hand, "John."

With a deep breath and small laugh, Claire asked, "So, what's your question?"

He nodded, "Ah yes, thank you. Well-" John was about to continue before he turned suddenly pale, and stiffened, his eyes focused on a point somewhere beyond Claire's shoulder.

"Mr. Hunter, please find Mr. Turner and then report back to me, if you would."

Smoothing down his moustache, as if trying to be presentable for the young man that entered the scene, John gave Claire a shrug and slipped away.

The posture and tone of voice which the young man had displayed showed clear evidence that he had some position of authority over John. He addressed him professionally and deliberately – not unlike a sea captain, in all actuality.

Approaching Claire with assuredness, the man gave a slight, apologetic nod.

"I apologize profusely for my crewman's behavior. I do hope he caused you no inconvenience."

Unsure of exactly how to react, Claire gave a half-joking curtsy and shrugged, "Oh no, it's fine. He was no problem at all." She cocked her head in the direction John hurried off to. "So you're all 'part of a crew', right?" She laughed. "Cool idea."

Smiling as if at a private joke, the young man only answered, "It wasn't my idea, especially not to be their Captain…but I seem to have done a well enough job of it."

He approached her and presented Claire with a refined bow. "My name is Captain Will Turner." He politely introduced himself.

He was completely in character…which was refreshing to finally find a man who wasn't afraid to wear poofy shirts and admit that "Yes, I _do_ look good in these!"

It wasn't any fun at all to find a guy who you'd _think_ was a courtly privateer, but really turned out to be a sun-drenched surfer dude from Laguna or Malibu.

…Not that she actually had any such encounters, nor biases against such surfer dudes – having dated one herself in her senior year of college – but Will seemed positively gallant. It was…nice.

With a little chuckle, she grinned, "Claire Peterson. Nice to meet you."

"Of course. It's been quite some time since I've been among the genteel folk." Will answered.

Claire took an immediate liking to him. After all, how great was it to meet an actual guy who uses words like 'genteel' and wasn't that man Frasier from the TV show.

Still with that smile splitting her face, Claire answered, "Well, I'm not at all pretentious in any way as you can see, and I'm not exactly a 'lady' either."

She swept her hands over her sailor's garb.

Will didn't seem bothered by that at all. In fact, he echoed the gesture, showing off his own piratical gear, smiling. "Then I suppose that neither of us are the exact figures of nobility."

"Guess not." Claire agreed.

…And _then_ she ran out of things to say. She was never particularly talented in keeping up conversations with absolute strangers. Will seemed more practiced, however, and he politely changed the subject.

"I believe that Mr. Hunter had wanted to ask you a question?" He was still quite charming and formal, although a new tone had entered – it was somewhat guarded, and with that same tang of command and experience that he spoke to John with.

Claire assumed that Will was responsible for the older man's actions – therefore, it made sense he'd want to know…right? Still, the fact he asked about it was a little weird. Nonetheless, she'd give Will the benefit of the doubt.

"Yeah, that's what he said." She shrugged, hugging her arms.

"Do you have any idea what it might have been about?" Will pressed.

"No…" Claire said slowly. "Why?"

As if sensing her growing discomfort, he relinquished his questioning. "Forgive me for being intrusive. I just wished to know if he said anything offensive or…_disturbing_."

Claire was slightly perturbed now. John seemed quite gentlemanly, despite initially having invaded her personal space.

"Not in the least. Why, is that something he does normally…?" She trailed off, leaving the question hang.

"No no, nothing at all like that," Will hastily amended.

"Then what?" Claire was getting uneasy and restless.

Will grew quiet and thoughtful, his eyes sweeping over the ground before arcing back up to meet her own gaze steadily.

"You see, he's quite fond of the drink, so..."

"Ah." Claire nodded briskly. "So he's the kind of shady guy you aren't always sure about?"

Well, that had been frank.

Claire immediately regretted her harsh choice of wording, but she couldn't help but feel anything but rising resentment and anger towards John. He had seemed so charming…if only a _little_ flustered.

Nothing to indicate he had been a pervert, which she found highly unnerving. It also made herself feel like a completely idiot.

He blanched. The expression on Will's face was so intense that Claire was so concerned that she had said absolutely the wrong thing.

And then he cracked a small smile, as if relieved.

"I assure you, his intentions are purely harmless. He's only a little unpredictable…like a child with wild fantasies, perhaps. You don't have anything to fear from him."

And that, of course, advice was from a stranger.

But Claire only shrugged and moved on, ignoring the unusual simile.

"Sure, okay."

She didn't bother asking what kind of 'fantasies' John was actually _having_. The poor guy was probably an addict. Or something. Not that she ran into them all the time, or anything.

Okay, what was even _with _her thoughts today, really? She berated herself internally, annoyed.

"Well, I'm sorry to have caused you any inconvenience." Will said civilly, drawing the conversation to a close.

"Hey, it's okay. Thanks for letting me…um…know about him." Claire wasn't exactly sure how to put it, but she supposed the point got across.

"Of course." Will was about to politely excuse himself and withdraw, when a loud, rambunctious man swaggered up behind him, dropping an arm lazily over Will's shoulder.

"Another friend of yours?" Claire smirked. "There definitely seems to be a lot of them wanderin' around."

Will grimaced, as if in discomfort.

"More an associate than anything else."

The man looked mildly offended. "Now Will, is that what you think of me, after all we've been through together?" He winked at Claire sleazily, erasing all chances of her holding any sort of respect for him.

Still looking pained, Will breathed, "It's _myself_ I'd be worried about if I thought of you as anything else than that, Jack."

"True enough," Jack admitted, slipping away from Will and sidling over towards Claire, appraising her thoughtfully, as if considering something very important.

Claire cautiously took an automatic step back, hand straying towards her coat pocket where the can of pepper spray was hidden.

Was she paranoid? Quite certainly. She was wary about certain strangers, particularly male strangers that grinned at her horribly or caught her somewhat by surprise.

Like this delightful fellow.

Jack was an oozy, oily kind of man you'd expect to find it a horrendous yellow zoot suit at a used cars lot, and those people always smelled like bad cologne and something else you'd rather not identify.

He also creeped her out.

Will sensed her discomfort and took a long stride forward, gripping Jack's shoulder firmly and arresting his movement.

"…We've a lot to cover, Jack. It's been some time since I've seen you last." He began to turn the man away from Claire, for which she felt great thanks. Will definitely seemed like a genuinely nice guy…if a little serious and reserved.

She herself figured it was time she grouped up with Veronica again, and gave Will a quick, thankful wave before turning back.

But Jack broke away, waving his arms before Will's face in pointed exaggeration.

"Shoo," he hissed impatiently at him. "I'm bloody working here!"

Before giving him a chance to retort anything, Jack stomped after Claire, loudly shouting dirty advances and terrifying her half out of her wits. She spun around finally, facing him and preparing to scream at her loudest.

But the strange thing was that many people were watching the drama unfold, although Jack didn't seem bothered by the attention. Will was getting jostled back by the growing throng of people, and Claire felt he was her only security in this.

"C'mon wench! Give 'ol Cap'n Jack a bit of love, would you darling?" He took an intimidating step forward, his dark eyes unreadable.

This time, her hand flew towards to can of pepper spray, although she was never given the chance to use it.

Will pushed through the cluster of witnesses, and started forward with a sharp look in his eyes. His gaze was locked on Jack's back, and he looked just about ready to run him through with that sword of his. Nevermind that it was probably fake.

It still could be just as deadly, and Will was Claire's only hope in this.

She felt her color rise at the indignity of the situation. Being humiliated in such a way before an entire audience…they were just going to sit back and watch as Jack planned to do God-knows-what with her.

_To_ her.

With a sinking feeling, Claire recalled to mind the video of an old woman getting mugged on a street corner, with a full five people walking by without stopping to help.

She shuddered.

Suddenly, a bearded pirate burst through the crowd, brandishing a menacing-looking sword with a viciously chattering monkey perched on his shoulder. Claire was too distracted to find it odd that an exotic animal was allowed to come to this public event…let alone as someone's pet.

The bearded man leapt forward and shouted, "Jack, ye've gone too far this time!" He continued to wave his sword with fervor. "Ye've broken the pirate code!"

At this, Will halted in his tracks and awaited further development. Claire shot him a frightened glance, to which he tried to match with a calm smile…although she could tell he was trying to deduce which of those two men he could…or _should_ trust.

Jack seemed to have temporarily lost interest in Claire, for he swung his full attention to the bearded man. "Ah, to blazes with the code, says I! It were only a band of superstitious old fools that writ it down!"

Claire began to use the opportunity presented to her to back slowly away, hoping to merge into the crowd and escaping Jack's notice.

But of course, his statement having been said, he turned around and grabbed her arm, roughly pulling her into him.

Claire gasped with shock and started kicking wildly, fight or flight behavior flashing across her brain waves. She was giving only one option now…so she shouted as loud as she could, hoping Veronica at least would recognize her voice.

Jack grunted at her well aimed kick to his shins, but didn't double over like she'd hoped. In fact, he seemed annoyed more than anything, and put a dirty hand over her mouth, making very sure to keep his fingers locked tightly together.

Damn Jack, she couldn't bite him.

The bearded man seemed displeased. "Let her go! Our pirate law demands that you harm no wenches on these grounds!" He gestured around himself. "'Tis neutral territory. You know that!"

Jack winced at another of Claire's kicks, but still struggled to answer the bearded man.

"Oh, I bloody well do! But for whom, aye? You need to be a pirate to adhere to the pirate code, which I'm not. Sound familiar?"

Will inched slowly towards Jack, still judging him to be the biggest threat in this bizarre scenario. The fact that he seemed to distrust the man who had a firm grip on her versus the man far away from her personage made Claire go very still, following Will with her eyes.

Jack's hold around her was suffocating and tight, and her fingers just brushed the tip of her pocket with the can of pepper spray.

Claire despised being so helpless.

The bearded man narrowed his eyes. "I more than remember. Much more. But deny it or not Jack, you're a pirate, and a pirate by blood. Know that."

Jack shook his head, as if humoring a little kid. "Barbossa, I'm not a pirate! Not anymore!" He tossed up his head proudly, dreadlocks swinging. "I'm a god!"

Claire kicked him again, and this time, caught off-guard, he finally stumbled a few paces away from her. She fled into the ever-growing crowd, running away until she finally fell into Veronica, panting.

-x-

It was a huge relief to Will that Claire had the fortitude to pull herself away from Jack. He could now focus completely on them.

Staring off in the direction Claire escaped, Jack commented loudly, "Looks like the wench got a whiff of your odor, mate," he mimed waving foul-smelling air away before his nose. Members of the crowd laughed, as if at a joke.

Narrowing his eyes but otherwise ignoring Jack's remark, Barbossa continued, "That behavior is why we banished you from the pirate court, Jack. I'll prove to ye that you're only a mortal! Who agrees with me?"

He glanced around the group surrounding him. Many of them looked bemused and unsure, although a few groups jokingly raised their arms and chorused, "Aye!"

Barbossa scowled. "Is that all?"

This time, more onlookers were sure that they were being addressed and heartily showed their support.

Will didn't understand what was passing between Barbossa and Jack, but he knew he'd have to intervene if a fight escalated.

Now Jack turned to the crowd to rally followers.

"Ah, to blazes with Barbossa and his precious code! Who thinks that piracy should be what it was meant to be? Freedom!"

More enthusiastic shouts greeted him.

Barbossa fixed Jack with a hard look. "Then I suppose we'll have to settle this as it was meant to be settled!"

He raised his sword and charged.


End file.
